Idou
by SilverKnight
Summary: Jack questions just what makes him who he is. POV. Futuretense. Revised.


Disclaimer: I don't own Samurai Jack. Erm, I'm not really sure who does, but I think it's Genndy Tartokovsky and Cartoon Network. ...Yeah, that sounds about right. Well, either way, I'm making no money off of this, so please don't sue. (I'm really not worth the lawyer's bill, anyway.)  
  
--I got bored, so I stayed up all night and wrote this. I rule! :D This story is supposed to take place when Jack is in his late 30's; I'd say somewhere around 38 or 39. Not sure of the exact date, because to know that would sort of go against the idea I'm putting in the fic-let itself. Ah, anywho. It's a one-shot POV fic, and the first time I've dared to write Samurai Jack. Take it for what you will.--  
  
Idou  
  
By: SilverKnight  
  
A light wind whispers around the trunks of the mighty redwoods, gently rustling the fragile leaves against one another. Sunlight streaks through the thick canopy; illuminating the mammoth roots that spider over the lush ground like a network of cracks in a fine emerald. The sky high above the tree line shines of the brightest sapphire, not a single cloud tarnishing its limitless, pure surface.  
  
I close my eyes, and raise my head to let the sun's tender rays warm my face, breathing in the sweet scent of nature. It has been a long time since I've felt such unhindered serenity in my surroundings. Uncertain of the reason, my hand slowly reaches my chonmage and tugs the small piece of wood from the folds of my hair, letting it cascade down my back. My lips curl in the slightest of smiles as the wind picks up, my hair whipping briskly in the warm spring breeze.  
  
I feel...peaceful. I stand this way for several moments, relishing in the feeling; for I know it won't return for some time. My grin morphs into a small frown. ...I should not have stopped to dwell upon it. I have only lost time. Reluctantly, my eyelids slide back to be greeted by a sheet of black tickling innocently at my skin. I sigh, gathering my hair away from my face with a practiced ease.  
  
A stray lock is wrenched free from my fingers and flops listlessly in the wind. A cool wave of shock engulfs my senses as my hands freeze in mid-motion.  
  
The lock of hair. It is *gray*.  
  
Numbly, I capture the offending strand in my grasp, staring at it with an odd mix of curiosity, awe, and horror. When did my hair begin to turn gray? Belatedly, I start to wonder just how long I have been trapped in this world, and how old I am. I frown when I cannot come up with an exact number.  
  
I have always prided myself on being an intelligent man. I know dozens of languages, and have learned how to discern more relatively easily. (It is actually quite simple when you learn the basic mechanics of speech; almost every new language I have encountered work upon similar principles. But, I digress.) I have mastered various fighting styles, have learned how to use every weapon and object available to my advantage, and have had the wits to use this knowledge to stay alive while being hunted on an almost daily basis.  
  
So, how is it possible that over a decade can pass seemingly without my knowledge?  
  
My eyes scan the surrounding forest, and I dart off the trodden dirt path, weaving gracefully around the massive tree-trunks as I search for... In all honesty, I don't know *what* I am searching for. I suppose I will find out when I get there.  
  
I lurch to halt, my hand unconsciously gripped around the hilt of my katana. A golden pond lies peacefully ahead of me; the sunlight glances off its surface warmly, as if beckoning my company. I purposefully stride to the waters edge, kneeling down next to it as I distractedly replace my chonmage. Carefully, I lean forward, studying my reflection closely in the shimmering mirror.  
  
My frown deepens. I still retain much of my youth--indeed, I appear much younger than most would expect after the many trials I have endured. Still, I can clearly see the weight of a decade wearing on my skin. My face is scarred, wrinkled, and rounded; at the least, far more so than it used to be. I have aged almost fifteen years. I'm forced to remind myself of that.  
  
The time has surely not passed *quickly*. I have lived every second of every day towards finding a time portal. Even in the deepest of dreamless sleeps, my scattered thoughts were plagued with memories of the past and how to return to it. It is my sole purpose in this world.  
  
And, yet, I am surprised to learn that so many years have passed.  
  
That...distresses me.  
  
A twinge of pain flickers in my shoulder, and despite myself, I wince. Sitting up straight, I absent-mindedly rub a calloused finger over the large, jagged scar that is visible just below my collarbone.  
  
Several years ago, while saving a town, I had been impaled through the shoulder by the monster's weapon. (It was actually extremely painful, and I had almost succumbed to the wound shortly after it was inflicted, but I prefer not to dwell upon it.) The local surgeon had originally speculated that I would no longer be able to use my left arm. However, with help of the doctors, a few medicinal remedies the Shaolin taught me, and a great deal of tenacity, my wound had been completely healed in a matter of five months.  
  
Everyone had been astounded--even myself to a certain degree. The doctors were understandably skeptical of my proclaimed recovery. One even went so far as to suggest I let a nurse of some sort accompany me. Though I appreciated their sympathy, I quickly turned the offer down. It would have been too dangerous. (In retrospect, there was also a hint of undue pride in that decision.)  
  
Unable to persuade me, the doctors bade me farewell. I can clearly remember my last exchange with the lead surgeon. "I'm sorry we couldn't help you more with your arm," he had said to me, an apologetic look upon his face.  
  
I smiled gratefully. "No apologies are necessary, my friend," I replied quietly. "I am forever in debt to you and your collegues for assisting me in my recovery." I rolled my shoulder once, flexing my hand experimentally. I felt a slight jolt, but it was nothing worth note. I had been detained in the area for far too long as it was. "I feel perfectly fine."  
  
I had expected him to argue. Instead, he'd grunted, shaking his head. "Yeah, for *now*," he stated enigmatically. "Wait five or ten years."  
  
Sure enough, his prediction was accurate. A few years after the incident, I began to feel a dull, smoldering ache in my shoulder; no doubt a result of the muscle damage. I can easily ignore it, but I have noted that the pain has become a constant (and very unwanted) companion. Recently, I have even caught myself favoring my right arm over my left on more than one occasion. To hopefully remedy this problem, I've made a conscious effort to use my left arm more often, though I'm beginning to suspect that nothing I do will counteract the injury.  
  
My hand falls to my lap, and suddenly curious, I inspect the sores and scars that cover the back of it. I cannot remember the last time in which my knuckles weren't scabbed and raw. I frown. ...In fact, I cannot remember the last time I was not nursing a new injury; whether it be a simple gash, or multiple, potentially fatal wounds.  
  
Pensive, I again peek into the clear pond lapping next to me and let my eyes wander over the reflection that stares back at me. This is who I am. An epiphany strikes me, coursing through my veins like wildfire.  
  
I have changed.  
  
I suppose it was inevitable. I scrutinize the foriegn image of this man before me, recalling the face that I had believed greeted me for so long. I compare the differed aspects; ingraining each new fine line and faint scar into my memory. Valiantly, I struggle to find the moment when I had ceased being that man and became what I am now. I'm less than surprised when I learn that I cannot find such a moment.  
  
My outlook is less forgiving than what it once was. While I hardly consider saving another's life routine, I realize that I have become more...accustomed to doing so. Watching the death of an innocent will never cease to haunt me, yet, I'm coming to realize that the death of the guilty no longer phases me in the slightest. I can remember a time when I believed that I could save everyone and everything, provided that I can simply reason with them. Whether or not they wanted to was of no consequence; why would anyone *not* wish to walk the path of righteousness?  
  
That sounds foolish and naive to me now. It didn't used to.  
  
Hm. It also appears that my speech has relaxed somewhat.  
  
I continue to gape at my older, matured face, and for the first time, I begin to see my father's features in my own. Before I am able to stop myself, I raise my hand towards the shifting image, my chest tightening fleetingly. "Father..." Would you recognize me if I returned today? Would you be surprised to see that I have aged, and grown? Would you wish to hear of my exploits, and learn that I have seen things that no one from your time could--?  
  
I blink, puzzled by my train of thought. When did the past stop being my time?  
  
I furrow my brows in dismay. I do not like where my questions are leading me, and I am...unenthusiastic to hear what the answers may be. I snarl at my own weakness. Such hesitation is not the way of a true warrior. I have never questioned my duty and responsibility in life, because my cause is just and good.  
  
And, yet...  
  
I clench my eyes shut and turn my face away from the pool of water. I have gained many allies, and have forged strong friendships with a diverse array of people--if you could call all of them that. I've visited places that many in my homeland couldn't have imagined in their wildest dreams. I have personally witnessed tragedy and injustice over and over, unable to do anything. I've come to grow...a perplexing bond with this time. This sick world, ravaged and infested with Aku's evil...  
  
It has become my home.  
  
I am thoroughly disgusted with myself. Worse yet, I am not certain if I should be. Frustrated, I growl, gripping my head in my strong hands. I feel as though I have just awakened from a trance, and the world I had once known so clearly no longer exists. Perhaps it never existed in the first place.  
  
"Nothing makes sense!" I hear myself hiss, and I am once again surprised by the gradual changes that have overtaken me. My voice is...darker; heavier. I don't like how it sounds.  
  
Eventually, I sigh, my shoulders slumping in resignation. Steeling myself, I prepare for the only question that is left to ask. "If given the opportunity, will I return to the past?" I murmur.  
  
My response is immediate.  
  
Yes. I would.  
  
This world was never meant to exist, and I was certainly never meant to wander through it. To allow it to continue would be a disservice to all the allies that I have made. They urge me to continue on my quest to the past, for they despise Aku's tyranny, as well. They know my cause is just, and they are willing to sacrifice everything for it.  
  
I open my eyes, a new determination giving me strength. "I will not let you down," I speak into the wind as I rise to my feet. I roll my left shoulder once and force out the stiffness that had nestled there, as my worn gi whips around me.  
  
The one thing I cannot change is change itself. I must not fear it; I must embrace it, and use it to better others and myself.  
  
I glance at my reflection one last time, running my fingers over the small streak of steel gray. My lips tick upward, and I chuckle softly, the sound--light and pure--echoing through the peaceful, serene clearing.  
  
Yes, change is inevitable. I am counting on it.  
  
--There ya go!-- 


End file.
